


Pursued By A Bear

by victorine



Category: Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom, Hugh Dancy/Mads Mikkelsen Character Combinations - Fandom, King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Exes, Getting Back Together, Hannibal Extended Universe, Idiots in Love, Isolde is way smarter than any of the knights, Isolde saves the day, M/M, Sharing Body Heat, Sharing a Bed, Stranded Together, commitment issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-27 08:37:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16699087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/victorine/pseuds/victorine
Summary: While out on a scouting mission with Galahad, Tristan injures his leg, leaving the pair stranded and forced to spend the night together in a cave. Which would be bad enough even if both men weren't still dealing with their recent break-up. Will they be able to stop fighting long enough to make it through the night?Yes, it's the classic stranded together/sharing-body-heat set-up, Tristhad style. If you're looking for groundbreaking narrative innovation, please try elsewhere, this here is pure tropey indulgence xD.





	Pursued By A Bear

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TCbook](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TCbook/gifts).



> A birthday fic for my utterly darling friend Cata, who has been infinitely patient waiting for *two damn months* while I finished this. I hope you enjoy, lovely, and I'm sorry it's so horribly late. Happy (belated) birthday <3<3<3
> 
> Massive thanks to TheSilverQueen for running an eye over this and making sure it made sense - you're a star <3

“So I told her, it’d take more than a flagon before I let her put _that_ in there!” Lancelot swallowed the last of his ale and looked round at his fellow knights, expecting hilarity and congratulations.

Instead, he got three faces contorted in various expressions of disgust.

“Oh, what? You laugh at every foul tale Bors regales us with but I merit only your disapproval?”

“The difference,” Gawain said, leaning forward as if to conspire with Lancelot, “is that Bors is amusing, whereas you are a pervert with an unfortunate gift for imagery.”

“A proper storyteller, me,” confirmed Bors.

Lancelot folded his arms across himself in irritation. “Galahad would laugh, if he were here.”

“Galahad would have thrown his beer at you for giving him nightmares,” reasoned Dagonet.

“Please, as if the things he let Tristan do to him weren’t-”

“Shut up!” hissed Gawain. “We’re not supposed to know about them.”

“They’re not even here!” Lancelot smacked the table in irritation. “They’re off on some mission together, probably barely able to keep from killing each other.”

The other knights nodded, in gloomy agreement. Things had been tense between the two scouts since their “secret” affair had ended, for reasons that no one, not even Gawain, could winkle out of them. It was a shame, too – there’d been so much less bickering and flouncing off in a huff while they’d been shagging.

The four knights drank in unaccustomed silence, each contemplating the possibility of some kind of matchmaking scheme and the relative odds of such a plan resulting in death for one or more of them. Right up until the minute that something feathery and determined launched itself at Bors’ head.

“What the almighty fuck?!” Bors roared, as he was dive-bombed for a second time.

“Is that Tristan’s bird?” asked Gawain, squinting at it from the safe space under the table to which he and Lancelot had retreated.

“Isolde,” Dagonet confirmed, watching on calmly as Bors swatted at his own head, missing his feathered assailant completely. He whistled, low and long, and held out his arm as Isolde finally left Bors alone and turned towards the tallest of the knights. She glided over and landed on his fortunately-gauntleted arm, somewhat calmer but still clearly fidgeting with anxious energy.

“What the hell has gotten into her?” Lancelot asked, warily crawling back out from under the table with Gawain.

“Maybe Bors’ stink offends her even more than the rest of us,” Gawain suggested.

“Oi!” Bors had recovered from his ordeal, proceeding directly from shock to rage. “Right, after I break that bloody bird’s neck, you’re getting the rough side of my fist, you long-haired arsehole. Besides, I don’t stink – Vanora says I’ve got a healthy musk. Not like that ponce, with his flower-water,” he added, sneering at Lancelot.

“Funny, your Vanora’s the one who makes it for me.”

“Shut it, you vain prick, we all know you get it from the whores down in-”

Isolde interrupted the escalating argument with an impatient screech, causing Bors, Lancelot and Gawain to dive for cover once more. Dagonet, meanwhile, simply petted her head and asked softly, “Something the matter, girl?”

Isolde, being rather more intelligent than the average hawk (and the three knights below the table), fixed him with a beady eye and then soared out the door and back again a couple of times.

“Think she wants us to follow her?” asked Gawain.

Dagonet nodded, allowing Isolde to settle back on his arm. “Something’s happened to Tristan that means they can’t get back. She wants us to rescue them.”

“She could have said that before battering me skull in,” sulked Bors.

“What?” Lancelot shrugged. “It’s not like you were keeping anything important in there.”

A couple of hours – and a small fistfight – later, the knights set out to rescue their friends, Isolde leading the way.

 

* * *

 

“You realise we’re going to die in here, right?”

Tristan restrained himself from snarling at his fellow scout, but solely because Galahad was the only thing keeping him – and his sprained, perhaps even broken, leg – from collapsing onto the floor.

“Exposure will kill us far quicker than any cave-spirit your imagination might conjure.”

Galahad snorted. “Cave spirits I can handle. The two of us won’t be much use when a bear comes by to share our beds though.”

This, Tristan chose to let pass. He had no interest in goading Galahad, and in such a mood the pup could be provoked by a breath taken the wrong way. Instead, he focused on limping far enough into the cave – with Galahad’s arm begrudgingly providing support – that both they and their fire, when lit, would be hidden from the elements.

Galahad helped lower him to the ground with surprising gentleness, propping him up against the wall for support before turning his back and assessing the cave. Tristan could see his mind working, figuring out the best place for their bedrolls, where they could set a fire without drawing attention…

“I can help,” he called out, “I’m not-”

“Useless?” In the gloom it was hard to tell, but Tristan was fairly certain Galahad was glaring at him. “And what use _are_ you, exactly? Will you crawl around on the floor making up our beds? Or perhaps give us a jaunty song just to attract the bears even quicker.”

“There haven’t been bears in these parts for-”

“Wolves, then! Just… shut up and let me get on with it. Try not to injure yourself any further. Play with your damn bird if you require occupation.”

“She has not returned since I fell and startled her,” Tristan said, unruffled since he knew Isolde would return to him in her own time.

“She’s a damn sight smarter than me, then.”

Tristan decided to quit while he was ahead and return to the safety of silence. He had been harbouring hopes that he and Galahad might return to friendship – at least – during the course of this mission but it was clear now that his foolishness had put an end to that idea. What he had been doing standing on that branch was beyond him…

…although impressing Galahad with his balance might have had something to do with it.

“Going to find some kindling while there’s still light.” Galahad was already stalking back towards the cave entrance, without casting a glance in Tristan’s direction. “Back soon, don’t die while I’m gone.”

“You have my word.”

Tristan watched Galahad’s form retreat into the half-light, anger obvious in the set of his shoulders. It wasn’t such an unusual sight – Galahad was often angry simply out of habit, and Tristan had always been able to get a rise out of the pup without really trying. Still, this felt different. There had never been this bitter edge to Galahad before… before Tristan had ruined everything.

Cold, sore, seated uncomfortably, and with nothing to occupy his time, Tristan allowed himself to indulge in memories of their all-too-brief affair. Galahad had been dear to him almost since the moment they met as youths, yet Tristan would never have acted on his feelings had he not woken two weeks after the battle with the Saxons to find Galahad curled possessively around him, head tucked into the crook of his neck.

 _Never again_ , had been the pup’s fierce words to him when their eyes met, before he had stopped Tristan’s mouth with a kiss.

They had barely been apart in the months that followed. Three months of touches that deepened as Tristan’s body healed, all snatched in secret so as to avoid the delight or censure – most likely both – of their fellow knights. And Galahad had proved more wonderful than Tristan could ever have imagined, all his snarling sharpness turned tender and playful whenever they were together. He was surprisingly confident, too, unafraid of demanding exactly what he wanted from Tristan and skilled in returning the favour. Tristan had sent up silent thanks at every opportunity to whomever it was had helped to ensure that _Galahad the Pure_ did not live up to his title.

And then, well… Tristan had been stupid, Galahad’s sharp edges had returned full force, and that had been that.

Tristan sighed, dragging his shoulder-blades against the cave wall in an attempt to find comfort. But it, just like Galahad’s favour, was denied to him and he could do nothing but close his eyes and dwell on the way the pup had looked when he found Tristan, wounded but conscious at the bottom of that damn tree. For just a second, there had been relief written across his face again, and Tristan could almost believe he still cared as he once had, before irritation and anger had eclipsed it.

 _Do you actually want to kill yourself? Was barely escaping with your life_ once _not excitement enough for you?_ Galahad had hissed, even as he was checking over Tristan’s prone body to find where the hurt was. _Or do you just enjoy proving you need consider no one but yourself?_

Tristan had provided no answer, not particularly wishing to give Galahad a reason to twist the knife or, indeed, his leg. But he was fairly certain the pain in his heart at Galahad’s retreat back into bitterness eclipsed the pain currently preventing him from getting to his feet.

He could admit, now, that he had been selfish and ridiculous – yes, Galahad’s fussing and worrying over his every movement, his pleading for Tristan not to put himself in danger, had been irritating to the point of being unbearable. But what was freedom compared to the love of the one dearest to you, given freely and reciprocated utterly?

“Nothing,” Tristan muttered into the dark.

Some time later, a noise echoed from the entrance to the cave, and soon Galahad appeared with a pile of kindling that almost, but not quite, obscured the surly expression he was also carrying.

“Still alive, then. Well done.”

Tristan said nothing, merely stared into the gloom, watching as Galahad dropped his bundle at the back of the cave and began constructing their fire.

“You must be tired, should you not rest a while before building that?”

Galahad’s head snapped round at Tristan’s question but he said nothing, so the wounded knight pressed on.

“Come, sit by me a while and recover yourself.” Tristan patted the ground next to himself, and thought he saw a hint of longing in Galahad’s frowning expression. His response, however, suggested otherwise…

“Are you determined to sabotage us? You know I need to get this done while we still have light to see by.” Tristan tried to object but Galahad spoke over him. “And may the gods help us if you get cold and fall ill. You would be a burden rather than simply an inconvenience then.”

Once again, Tristan had nothing to say to this. He simply fell back against the wall and nursed the sting of Galahad’s words, hardening himself for the thousandth time to the fact that Galahad would never forgive him. He wondered if his resolve would ever stick, or if he would forever be doomed to making pathetic overtures only to be crushed underfoot like a baby bird.

He felt useless, frustrated, exactly the burden Galahad had accused him of being. He was weighted down by pain and guilt, as Galahad moved around him in a flurry, first getting the fire lit and coaxing it into a blaze, and then immediately applying himself to creating a reasonably comfortable bed from the light pack Tristan had carried with him. And all Tristan could do was wait, and watch, and mourn his stupidity.

Eventually, Galahad had constructed an acceptable sleeping place and Tristan realised, with a sinking sensation, that he would have to rely on Galahad’s help in order to get into it. He would have to accept Galahad’s hands on him, their bodies pressing close together, the heat of Galahad’s breath washing over him. Tristan felt dizzy for a moment, and while he would have liked to blame it on the pain, he was not given to self-deception. He had missed Galahad more than he had known, but now that he was aware of his body’s craving to have the pup close to him again, he was not sure how he would cope, nor hide it from Galahad, who certainly would not be happy if he suspected Tristan’s feelings.

He wondered if, perhaps, he could drag himself over to the bed and just… roll into it without Galahad noticing. It would hurt, certainly, but he would be a pathetic excuse for a knight indeed if he could not endure a little pain without creating a racket. Gingerly, he pushed himself away a little from the wall, having determined that the easiest way to complete this endeavour would be to drag himself backwards by his hands. The second he moved, however, he found himself the subject of a wicked glare from Galahad, who had either been keeping a much closer eye on him than he had assumed, or had hearing almost as good as Isolde’s.

“No,” was all Galahad deigned to say, but Tristan took it as an order, quietly settling himself back against the wall and waiting as Galahad went back to fuss with the fire again, making sure it was well-fed and unlikely to require his attention for a while. Then he turned to Tristan and, seemingly steeling himself to the horrifying task of touching him again, rolled his shoulders and took a deep breath.

“Right, um…” Another deep breath and then, “You’re not going to do yourself any good getting back up on that leg just to have to get back down again. So, I’m going to carry you.”

Tristan’s mouth opened a little and he had to take a moment to process this proposal. “You’re going to…”

“Carry you.” Galahad raised an eyebrow and Tristan recognised the challenge in it.

“Whatever you think is best.”

Galahad grunted, apparently mollified, and stepped up to Tristan’s side. Wordlessly, he stooped down and placed Tristan’s arm around his shoulders, before placing his own beneath Tristan’s thighs and against his back.

“Ready?” he asked.

“As ever.” Tristan gave him a reassuring smile, disguising his conviction that he would soon be falling on his arse once again.

Then, in one surprisingly smooth motion, Galahad hefted Tristan into his arms with barely a jolt to his leg. Which meant that, rather than worrying for his imminent reintroduction to the ground, he was suddenly accosted by the return of his previous concerns. Specifically those regarding the heat of Galahad’s body, and the softness of his curls, and the way he smelled as Tristan surreptitiously took a breath next to the warm flesh of his throat.

If Galahad noticed this covert scenting, he chose not to ask, and instead took a moment to settle his balance before inquiring, “All right?”

And Tristan was, surprisingly. Well, he was catastrophically compromised by being held so close and so tenderly by the lost love of his life, but physically he was completely secure. He could feel that Galahad’s muscles were working hard to hold him, but they weren’t straining or trembling and, as he began to make his way towards the bed, his steps were sure and firm.

“All right, yes,” Tristan replied, a little breathlessly.

Galahad took the few steps to the bed with marked carefulness, going slow and steady to avoid jostling Tristan. Who began to wish that their destination was rather further away – he could quite happily spend hours like this, held tight in Galahad’s impressively strong arms. Soon, though, they had reached his bed, and Galahad – after checking once again that Tristan was ready – lowered him gently onto the blankets he was to sleep on. The ground was every bit as uncomfortable as it had been by the wall, but Galahad had done his best, and it was at least beginning to warm from the fire. Together, and without too much pain, they got Tristan arranged in a position he would be able to rest in, and then Galahad brought another blanket to lay upon him.

“Are you comfortable?” Galahad asked, sitting back on his heels, his voice pitched low in a way that drew gooseflesh across Tristan’s skin.

“I am.” Tristan found Galahad’s eyes and held them. “Thank you, Galahad.”

Galahad stood quickly, clearly uncomfortable at being in such proximity to Tristan’s bed. And Tristan. He stalked over to his own bedroll, but instead of crouching to unfurl it, simply stood with his back to Tristan. Presently, he spoke, low and somber.

“Should I… Do you want me to just go?”

Tristan looked over at Galahad, the ramrod stiffness of his back, his hands in fists at his sides. Fighting. Always fighting, his pup. Tristan wanted very much to go to him, fold him against his chest, tell him that there was nothing here for him to fight, not between them. But the hypocrisy of it would surely do nothing but enrage Galahad – and besides, Tristan could hardly stand at the moment, let alone make grand romantic gestures.

Instead, in a carefully calm voice, he said, “You would be little good to either of us if you froze to death. We can surely pass one night in civility.”

Instead of the weary acquiescence to his words Tristan had expected, though, Galahad’s posture only seemed to tighten further, and he threw Tristan a baleful glance before speaking. “Don’t be obtuse. I wasn’t speaking of tonight, I meant that… that Arthur has other troops in need of fighters. If I asked him to transfer me to one such he would not refuse. And then there would be no more chance of you having to endure moments such as these.”

“Of _I_ having to endure…” Tristan found he couldn’t form more words than these, but instead simply stared at Galahad, whose face was defiant and closed off.

“If you wish to be off, I will hardly stand in your way,” Tristan said eventually, reaching out to finish tugging his blankets into place, deliberately avoiding looking in Galahad’s direction. A bitter pit was forming in his stomach, and he felt his breath come sharp and short. How long had Galahad been wanting to free himself from Tristan’s presence? He must truly have hatred for him in his heart to contemplate leaving Arthur and their band of brothers just to put distance between the two of them. Tristan felt as though the world had tilted on its axis – the pain in his leg was nothing compared to the pain of knowing Galahad despised him so.

“I should like to see you try,” came the snarled response.

“You will be sadly disappointed, then,” Tristan bit out, before turning onto his good side – which conveniently put his back to Galahad. He heard a sigh from the other side of the cave, but no more words reached him, only the sounds of Galahad preparing his bed for the night, as far from Tristan as he could make it.

He would welcome sleep if she would have him; clearly, Galahad would not.

 

* * *

 

“This was a damn silly idea. We should have waited for the morning, we will hardly find them with no light to see by. I can’t even see any of you to glare at in this gloom.”

“Do shut up, Lancelot,” Gawain snapped in his general direction. “The bird knows where she’s going.”

“Can’t see her either, can we? What good is her knowing – hey!” Lancelot’s rant – which had been going on pretty near constantly since barely a mile into their trip – was interrupted by Isolde dropping out of the sky to dive bomb him before swooping back up into the clouds.

“She sees you fine,” Gawain grinned, making a decent fist of hiding his own fright at the hawk’s sudden appearance, as Bors and Dagonet collapsed into fits of laughter behind him.

 

* * *

 

Tristan awoke to a flare of pain in his leg that knocked the breath from his lungs. His back was twisted and his arm raised, and he realised that his body had been moving before he’d even been conscious of it – it had been an aborted attempt to flip onto his other side that had pained him. And the reason for this sudden, unwise manoeuvre was staring at him in frank surprise, his own arms raised in defence, and one leg caught in the process of sliding into Tristan’s bed behind him.

“Galahad,” Tristan began, voice thick with sleep and guarded curiosity, “what the fuck are you doing?”

Galahad looked as if he might flee back to his side of the cave for a moment, but then set his jaw and shoved gently at Tristan’s shoulder to make him turn back over. When Tristan resisted, he rolled his eyes and said, “Got tired of the sound of your teeth chattering.”

Tristan took stock of his surroundings and realised that the fire was nearly out and the cave was freezing. He himself was shivering, cold right down to his toes despite the blankets piled on top of him. Too many blankets, he noticed, and instantly understood that it had been Galahad’s intention to slide in behind him, to gift Tristan with both his bedding and body heat.

“And you thought you could do this without disturbing my leg?”

Galahad made a small growling noise in the back of his throat and muttered, “I know you don’t appreciate my trying to protect you, I didn’t want you feeling _caged in_.” Galahad made no attempt to keep the bitterness from his voice as he referred to the fight that had finally put a stop to their intimacy.

Using Tristan’s own words against him. He had the sneaking feeling he deserved it, too.

He said nothing more to Galahad for the moment, merely turned carefully back onto his side and tried not to wince at the discomfort as Galahad slid in behind him. He accepted Galahad’s arms around him without complaint, and managed not to whine with need as he breathed in the pup’s scent, bringing with it memories of when such intimacy had been a commonplace between them. He instantly felt warmer with Galahad wrapped around him, and had to accept the wisdom of the idea, even as he considered the possibility that a night spent in this pale imitation of their former relationship might result in more pain than any damaged limb.

“Thank you,” he murmured, determined at least to let Galahad know his care was not unappreciated.

“No thanks are necessary,” Galahad said sharply. “Better to share a bed than have to drag your corpse back home in the morning.”

So it was to be like that, Tristan thought. A kind gesture but one driven by practicality rather than care. And why had he expected any differently? He had rejected Galahad’s care when it was offered, out of some foolish idea that to be loved meant to be restricted. He had no right to Galahad’s love now.

Yet, as he tried to settle himself down to sleep he couldn’t hold in the sigh of contentment at having Galahad warm and close once again. Behind him, Galahad heard it and froze for a moment, and Tristan thought perhaps he would say something cutting, or perhaps simply get up and leave. Instead, after a second’s hesitation, Tristan felt himself held more tightly, and Galahad raise one hand to stroke at his sleep-roughened hair.

He dared not say anything more, for fear that Galahad might come to his senses and stop touching him with such tenderness. Instead, he focused on coaxing his muscles into relaxing, the better to let Galahad’s warmth seep into them until, presently, his shivering subsided and sleep began to pull at him.

Perhaps it was this encroaching lassitude that loosened Tristan’s tongue as well as his common sense, because though he had resigned himself not to provoke Galahad any further, a murmur crossed his lips before he could stop it.

“I was wrong, pup. Wrong, and wrong-headed.”

Behind him, Galahad let out a sigh and rested his chin on Tristan’s shoulder. “Sleep, Tristan. It’s done, let it be now.”

And so he did.

 

* * *

 

Tristan had expected to be woken at least once more during the night by pain from his leg – that, or to be shaken into consciousness at dawn’s first light by an impatient Galahad, wanting to try to carry Tristan back to camp after his success at carrying him over five feet of cave floor. Instead, his eyes slid open of their own accord, no pain or angry pup, just golden light spilling into the mouth of the cave and an exquisite warmth that did away with any desire he might have had to be up and about.

Any attempt to get up would have been unwise, in any case, given that Galahad was currently a deadweight, pinning him down and using his chest as a pillow. Tristan couldn’t help but stare, and wonder if, perhaps, he had somehow travelled into the past, into those weeks in which he had become accustomed to waking to the sight of Galahad’s chaotic curls obscuring his sleeping face. A quick clenching of muscles assured him that, no, he was most certainly still in the present and his leg was most certainly still injured. Which meant that Galahad had chosen to remain in his bed all night, and had been comfortable enough to return to his old, favoured position upon Tristan’s chest.

Or perhaps, Tristan considered glumly, it had simply been muscle memory that had positioned them thus, and Galahad would wake angry and revolted by his closeness to his despised ex-lover. Perhaps he should try to move, or turn in such a way as to dislodge the pup while he slept, and thus avoid any unpleasantness.

Tristan was just planning the mechanics of such a move, when Galahad snuffled and cracked one eyelid open, leaving Tristan no time to arrange them in a less compromising position. He peered up at Tristan from beneath his curls, and Tristan froze, anticipating bitter words or possibly a knife to his heart (he knew from experience that Galahad never slept without at least two on his person).

“Morning, love,” had certainly not been on the list of phrases Tristan had imagined issuing from Galahad’s mouth, but they were the ones he said, sleep-soft and smiling. And then, as if intent on placing Tristan in a state of total shock, he leaned up and pressed a kiss to his slack mouth, and then another, and another, before pulling away and settling back down onto Tristan’s chest with the most contented noise Tristan had ever heard.

“Galahad?” Tristan ventured after some minutes had passed in silence.

“Mmm?”

“Do you know where you are?”

“In bed, miraculously uneaten by any bears, and trying to get a little more sleep if you will allow me.” Then he yawned, pointedly.

“All right, good. And… do you know with whom you are in bed?”

In answer, Galahad tugged Tristan’s shirt open and bit softly on his left nipple. “Tastes like Tristan to me,” he said, running his tongue across his lips for good measure.

Tristan willed his morning hardness – helped along very effectively by Galahad’s nipping at his chest – to go down, allowing some more minutes to elapse as he tried to figure out what had caused Galahad to take leave of his senses. Having rejected the possibility of the pup being under an enchantment, or playing a trick on him – for surely Galahad was not _that_ cruel – eventually, Tristan surrendered to the need for further investigation.

“I am… confused, Galahad.”

“You are loud, Tristan.”

“I will be quiet if only you will soothe my confusion.”

“Loud and _demanding_.” Galahad sighed. “All right, what problem is vexing you?”

“Not a problem, I would not call it that. It is simply that I cannot work out why yesterday you loathed the very sight of me, but today you call me ‘love’ and hold me close like a lover might.”

“Oh, that.” Tristan felt Galahad shrug against him. “You said you were wrong.” His tone suggested that this was all the explanation required but Tristan could not help but think there must be some complexity to the matter he was missing.

And so he said. “Forgive me, Galahad, but I’m still puzzled. Are you saying that all I ever had to do was admit my wrongness and you would have returned to me?”

“In so many words, yes.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

Tristan found himself making a sort of anguished gurgle before crying, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Galahad looked at him with amusement, a wry smile on his lips. “My love, if I take the knife and throw it for you, does it still count as your hit when it finds the middle?”

Tristan regarded the boy smiling at him, easy contentment written in every line of him. And beneath that, a small but pronounced ridge of anxiety, as befitted a man awaiting an answer.

So Tristan gave it to him, not in words, but in action, grabbing Galahad under his arms and hauling him up until their mouths were aligned and moulded together. Things were a little awkward with Tristan’s leg still very painful and delicate beneath them, but Galahad moved until he was curled around Tristan’s good side, half draped over his chest, hands working lower and lower with every moment.

“I believe that, if I’m careful, I may be able to make you forget the pain in your leg for a spell,” Galahad murmured into Tristan’s mouth.

“Mmm, better than any medic could, I’m sure.” Tristan placed his hand on the back of Galahad’s head and drew him back in for a deep, languid kiss, then lay back and put both hands behind his own head, elbows akimbo. “And what treatment did you have in mind, my healer?”

Galahad gave him the most innocent expression possible, which lasted all of five seconds before dissolving into one of utter wickedness. He said nothing, but raised himself up on his knees and bent deep over Tristan, holding eye contact as he descended, mouth latching onto Tristan’s chest once again. He licked and sucked, in a lewd foretelling of his ultimate goal, worrying at Tristan’s flesh until it was pink and puffy, and Tristan was half-melted into his bedroll.

Galahad’s hand, meanwhile, had continued to venture south, gripping and kneading at Tristan’s stomach, his hips, eventually reaching the soft inner skin of his thighs. Brushing his fingers against this last area produced a gasp from Tristan that caused Galahad to smile victoriously around his mouthful. He gave one last nip and tug of his teeth to Tristan’s chest and then pulled off with a filthy, wet sucking sound.

“You are terribly sensitive down there, Sir Knight. I believe further examination of the area will be required.” Galahad glanced down towards Tristan’s straining dick and then back up towards the man himself, who was pink and panting from Galahad’s ministrations.

“You have my full…” he gasped, “and enthusiastic consent to continue.”

Galahad gave a satisfied hum and shifted his position until he was kneeling perpendicular to Tristan, depositing kisses on heated flesh as he did so. Once he was comfortable, he snaked one arm beneath Tristan’s thigh, curling it round for ballast, and used the other to pin him down by the chest, one eyebrow cocked in his direction as if to say, _stay_.

As if Tristan would have gone anywhere, injured leg or not.

Then, satisfied, he leaned in, his face lowering towards Tristan’s eager erection with a look of anticipation that caused Tristan to shiver. This drew a grin from Galahad who, clearly determined to take his time, nosed along the line of Tristan’s cock, placing the lightest of kisses at the base before skimming his way back to the tip to press a deeper, open-mouthed kiss there too.

Tristan whined, high-pitched and unrestrained. “Galahad, _please_.”

“Are you certain, Sir Knight? Not so long ago you blanched at the idea of allowing anyone to take care of you. Are you sure you wish for it now?”

“Galahad,” Tristan said, and the sudden serious note in his voice caused Galahad to turn his head and look deep into his eyes. “I wish nothing more than for you to take care of me, and I of you, in every way possible, for as long as we both shall live.”

The smile that Tristan received at these words was nothing short of blinding, and Tristan had half a mind to drag Galahad back up to him and kiss it off his face, leg be damned. But before he could embark on this questionable course of action, Galahad leaned back down and took him into his mouth whole – upon which Tristan could do nothing very much more than gasp his name raggedly.

Afterwards, when they lay panting, sweaty and deliriously happy, it occurred to Tristan that they would, at some point, have to make an effort to leave the cave and make their way home. Though how they were to do that with his leg still unusable, he was not entirely sure.

As if reading his thoughts, Galahad stretched and said, “It’s not _such_ a bad cave, this. I bet we could live very comfortably in it for a few weeks.”

Tristan grinned and petted his pup’s curls – the thought was tempting, he had to admit. “And what of your bears, little one, do they no longer concern you?”

“I dare any bear to trifle with me now, when I have everything I have ever wanted and the will to fight for it. And I am _not_ little!” he added, giving Tristan a punch in the shoulder.

“Indeed you are, pup, a tiny little thing! I believe I could fit you in my saddlebag and carry you wherever I go!”

“You didn’t think me so little the times when I… mmf!” Tristan shut down this line of reasoning with a sound kiss, to which Galahad hardly objected at all.

Indeed, they might have started up all over again, were it not for the enormous roar that rang into the cave.

The pair sprang apart – or, at least, Galahad sprang. Tristan could only flop gracelessly onto his back and grit his teeth to keep back the scream of pain the movement triggered. Galahad hesitated for a moment, clearly torn between wanting to see to Tristan’s leg and needing to retrieve his sword.

Through the haze of pain, Tristan gritted his teeth and grunted, “You can take care of me all you like _after_ you’ve slain the beast.”

Galahad narrowed his eyes. “Promise?”

“Swear on my sword.”

“How about your manhood?”

“That too.”

Galahad shot a filthy grin Tristan’s way, but he was already moving towards his pack, pausing only to throw on the bare minimum of clothing before snatching up his sword. Tristan allowed himself a moment’s respite from fear to appreciate how well Galahad’s form looked as he primed for battle. Assuming they lived through this, and assuming his leg healed properly, he was going to kidnap Galahad and keep him in his chambers for a week while he re-learned every inch of the pup’s flesh.

That was for later, but in the moments before the probably-bear reached them, Tristan realised there _was_ something he needed to tell Galahad, in the likely event that neither of them would survive this encounter.

“Galahad!” he yelled, causing the other knight to spin round and glare questioningly at him.

“What?”

Tristan took a deep breath and said, “Keep your feet planted – you always shuffle around too much when you’re facing larger opponents.”

“Oh, so now you’re telling _me_ to be careful?”

“Yes, absolutely. And to stop dancing when you should be fighting.”

“I do not dance! Stop distracting me.”

“All right, just one more thing.”

“What? What now?!”

“I love you.”

The fire in Galahad’s eyes turned to sparks for a second, before he lifted his chin and gazed down at his broken partner.

“You’d better.”

Then he charged out towards the sound of the roars, making a din of his own to match (which fortunately drowned out Tristan’s muttering that if he made it back in one piece there would be a reckoning about _that_ response).

For several moments, Tristan could do nothing but wait, listening as Galahad’s cries mingled with those of his prey and trying not to imagine his fragile body being swept aside and shattered by huge paws and wicked teeth. He could not help but expect a cry of anguish as his brave, beautiful pup was subdued and torn apart by a vicious, uncaring beast.

And yet… no cry was forthcoming. Indeed, all noise seemed to have faded away, leaving only a terrible silence to keep Tristan company. Surely the fight could not be over so soon? Perhaps though… perhaps the beast had knocked Galahad unconscious with one fell blow and even now was feasting on his remains. Tristan shuddered and tried to push this gruesome image from his mind, when suddenly the cave exploded with noise once again.

Yet this noise was not the roar of an angry beast. Indeed, it sounded more like… cheering?

Tristan did not have more than a second to wonder about this before an explanation appeared in the form of Isolde, swooping through the cave to land on Tristan’s shoulder.

“Hello, darling,” he murmured to her, wonderingly. “Where have you been? Have you come to rescue us?”

“Stuff her,” came Bors’ voice, swiftly followed by Bors’ person, as well as the rest of his brother knights and, most importantly, Galahad, whole, hearty and entirely pleased with himself. “We’re the ones who rode all this way in the dark to rescue your sorry arses!”

“You see, I told you we would be chased by a bear,” Galahad said, slapping Bors playfully on the shoulder. “Only I did not foresee it would be for the purposes of rescue, rather than making us into a hearty meal.”

“You calling me a bear, boy?” Bors asked.

“You smell like one,” came back five laughing voices.

Bors would likely have had much to say on this subject (again) had it not been for Gawain’s gaze falling at that exact moment on the rumpled and very clearly shared bedrolls by the fire.

“What is this?” Gawain squealed, shouldering Galahad out of the way so he could inspect the scene. “Did you two…? Are you back together?” He took one look at Galahad’s face, which was apparently enough to confirm his assumptions, and ambled back across the cave to take Galahad’s hand in his and shake it with what looked like painful enthusiasm. “Congratulations! That is outstanding, my friends! I am so happy you worked things out!”

Tristan had his eyes trained on Galahad, watching as he froze at Gawain’s celebrations, an expression on his face as though Gawain was foretelling his death, not congratulating him on their reunion. He sighed. Clearly, whatever had passed between them prior to the other knight’s arrival was not meant to last. Galahad always had struggled with the idea of their relationship being known to anyone save themselves – apparently while he had expected Tristan to overcome his misgivings at having someone care about his wellbeing, Galahad was not willing or able to do the same for his own issues. Tristan braced himself to hear the inevitable protestations, the explanation that they had merely slept together for the sake of warmth, that nothing more than friendship had ever existed between –

“Yes, as it turns out a little knock was all that was needed to bring both of us to our senses.”

Galahad’s cheerful voice brought Tristan out of his piteous thoughts with a jolt, which probably caused all the knights to laugh heartily at him – Tristan had no idea though, all he could see was the brilliant, besotted, _knowing_ smile Galahad was pointing at him.

“If only I’d known that,” Lancelot’s voice came from somewhere in the far distance, “I’d have knocked your heads together weeks ago!”

Galahad’s smile turned wicked at this, and he moved to crouch next to Tristan, depositing a kiss on his temple. “I appreciate the sentiment but, fair warning, if anyone should harm a hair on this head, I will swiftly remove whichever body part happens to be most precious to them.”

The knights exchanged glances, followed by shrugs, followed by suspiciously wide smirks.

“Good then,” Gawain said. “We’ve only got the one spare horse, so you can be in charge of getting him and his duff leg safely mounted.”

“Think he already took care of that last night,” someone – almost certainly Lancelot – sniggered under their breath as the rest of the knights giggled in a most un-knightly fashion.

Their laughter quickly died, though, when Galahad once again reached out and scooped an unresisting Tristan into his arms, before marching past the line of gaping knights and out into the light. Admittedly, the impressive effect of this was slightly undermined by Tristan leaning over Galahad’s shoulder to shoot them all a beatific smile and his middle finger, but the point still seemed to come across.

“Well,” Bors said, as they all stared after Galahad’s retreating back, “you can sort of see what Tristan sees in the lad. Very dashing move, that.”

“Dagonet could probably give you a piggyback if you fancy,” Gawain suggested.

“I could,” agreed Dagonet, as they began to make their way out of the cave, “but you must promise not to fall in love with me, Bors. I don’t wish to risk Vanora’s wrath.”

“Gods no, save us from any more mooning and pining. Those two are enough to make a man sick,” groused Lancelot.

For which Isolde clipped him soundly with a claw. After all, nobody was permitted to be so rude about _her_ family.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [tumblr](http://victorineb.tumblr.com)!


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